


Well-Done Up

by xXScreenSaverXx



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, How Do I Tag, M/M, Not Beta Read, Sassy Will Graham, Will Graham Needs a Hug, and couldnt care less, bby Will got himself caught, i meant it to be serious but the sarcasm took it, please ignore the title im sorry, this wasnt supposed to be crack but it kinda is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 03:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14275707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXScreenSaverXx/pseuds/xXScreenSaverXx
Summary: Listen to the cannibal. Stay in school. Eat your 5-a-day (but dear God, don’t take anything that perfect man offers you, Will mentally cries).Will had, once again, Fucked Up. Now, trapped by the Ripper with no escape route or help in sight, he wonders - why doesn't he care? Maybe it's those eyes, or that jawline. Maybe it's just Hannibal (Or maybe, it's Maybelline?).





	Well-Done Up

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was a failure. Please ignore the title. And the content. And the tags. Ya know what, I'm just gonna... *Chucks the thing at you and books it*
> 
> Also, ITALICS, man? What the hell even are they?!

Will Graham felt so, so fucking stupid. Only, deep down – past his bitterness, and the void of emotion that came with it – he’d known. Hadn’t he?

‘So, this is how it ends’, he supposed. Maybe not ideal, but fitting. Ironic, in its own way. How the deep, plush, red couches that he’d admired in _His_ office before could have been chosen specifically to hide whatever stray substances should befall it. How the rare Baltimore sunsets held nothing to the way _His_ eyes lit up in the headlamps of incoming police cars, alight with every colour in the visible spectrum, and far beyond it.

Perhaps Will had considered the man handsome before. And maybe, just maybe, beyond his carefully preserved façade of disdain, he still did. Possibly, he mused, that should he survive, he should choose a therapist that wouldn’t expose him (Alana), mock him (Chilton), or… Or encourage him. Hannibal.

Ah, too little too late, he chuckled absentmindedly, fiddling with the thick metal handcuffs that secured him to the icy pole behind him. Worrying was the fact that William Graham wasn’t scared. Hell, he struggled to feel anything on a good day, you’d think that a life-or-death situation would stir something. _Anything._ Will had known something was up since the moment he’d stepped out of bed. Nothing physical, only a chill in the air that sent shivers down his gently heaving spine reminding him that, no matter how much he did, surveillance was only meters away. Apparently, even Jack was bright enough to see the use in keeping the man under observation, even in the field. Will gasped out another cruel laugh, ignoring the way his freshly broken ribs heaved with exertion.

Hannibal-Freaking-Lecter. He could hear the man moving around in the next room, making little noise save for the gentle clanging of pots and pans. In the end, it was undeniable Will’s fault. He’d charged in, sick of games and riddles, with no backup plan of which to speak. And here he ended up. Captive to this – this what? Maniac? Monster? Motherfucker? None of Will’s extensive, rather uncouth vocabulary seemed to fit. In fact, it seemed to Will that he was only describing the opposite of _Him_.

His sharp, maroon eyes that seemed to know all, without judgement; his cold, chiselled face, invisible barriers only visible to those who cared to take a moment and really _notice_ ; he was an enigma, wrapped in a mystery. One that Will had made the mistake of confronting.

‘So yes’, he mused. ‘This is how it ends.’

The crashing of pots soon grew silent, as the ex-detective waited for the gentle, almost feline footsteps that would signal his end. He was not left wanting for long.

“William,” came that soft, lyrical baritone from the darkness. Will felt himself sigh. “You really should not have come today.”

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ he thought without venom. After hours of deliberation and careful self-maintenance, it hadn’t surprised Will to discover that he wasn’t scared. Most, by now, would have been running for the hills as best they could, crying to a mother that couldn’t hear them – and in Will’s case, wouldn’t care. Instead, he quirked a small grin. “Never did have the best instincts.”

Hannibal regarded him in what, if he didn’t know better, could have been seen as a closely guarded affection. “You must know what comes next, surely?”

Will did. Of course he damn well did, he’d been inspecting the products of encounters like these for years. Hell, he’d probably eaten half of them. The thought failed to raise that familiar bile in Will’s throat, didn’t disturb him like it might someone else. Desensitisation is a bastard, he supposed.

He managed a stiff nod, not breaking their unsteady eye-contact for even a second.

“So. How are you going to serve me today, Chef? Rare, or well-done?”

No reaction. “William,” Hannibal responded sadly, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Don’t you know the best steaks are aged? To waste a delicacy as rare as you would be a crime.”

Huh. Vaguely creepy, but okay. That’s probably what he’d signed up for, anyway.

“You always cuff your steaks to poles in your basement? Which, by the way, could use some interior decorating. Ever heard of carpeting, Count Dracula? Not everything has to be damn stone!”

Oh, what the hell. If he was going to die, he might as well go down swinging. The thing is, Will has always played by ‘The Rules’. Whether it was growing up, or finding a job, or for some inexplicable reason ending up as an hors d’oeuvre for a cannibalistic serial killer, he’s followed social conduct (Maybe not perfectly, but who was really counting?).

He’s spent hours analysing situations and deciding on the best course of action, an ability that he prided himself in. So, when Hannibal curls up those cherry-ripe lips and lets out a soft, unyielding chuckle, Will once again finds himself thrown through a loop.

“You always were feisty, Will. A shame to let that go to waste, really.” Hannibal let out a sigh, as though it really was the most disappointing thing. “Such beauty is only found once, I’ve been told. But I can’t risk you running off to our Uncle Jack, I’m afraid.”

Will gaped at him. Somewhat because he’d been pried through a loop in being called beautiful (Or whatever Hannibal meant  - he chose to interpret it somewhere along those lines). But mainly because-

“Why the hell would I go to that asshole? He locked me up!” The words sprung out, unbidden. Hannibal raised an eyebrow in vague surprise. Feeling the need to elaborate, Will went on. “I mean, he’s just doing his job. But seriously? Did he really need to go all Big Brother on me, without consent, may-I-add!”

Hannibal nods his head in agreement. Consent really is important, kids. Listen to the cannibal. Stay in school. Eat your 5-a-day (but dear God, don’t take anything that perfect man offers you, Will mentally cries).

“And then he has the audacity to ‘take me back’? Jesus, even I know that’s conceited, and I went through a phase about a month ago of not being able to do my two times tables!”

“So, I take it that you wouldn’t go to Jack. But you would go to Alan-“

“Nope, she dumped my sorry ass and her wife’s brother fed his fucking face to my goddamn dogs.”

“Price and Zeller, then.”

“Dude! They passive-aggressively blame me enough for Beverly, I can’t take that kind of emotional beating!”

“Lounds, surely.”

“Are we sure she isn’t dead? ‘Cause I seem to remember her dying, like, ten times.”

Hannibal was sweating, although that was merely a side effect of Will’s choice language.

“…Chilton?”

“You really want me to answer that?” No response. “Thought not.”

He scrunched his perfect face in concentration, before turning to Will in defeat. “Then who? Who do you intend to tell?”

Will thought about it for a second. Really thought. And, sad facts aside, came to the realisation that there was nobody to tell. Hell, and that was if he could even be bothered! Which, judging solely by his behaviour while tied to a pole in a serial killer’s lair, was unlikely. Hannibal seemed to reach the same conclusion, and the man huffed out a reluctant sigh.

“Well, then,” Hannibal concluded. He retreated a few feet away, before lowering his body onto the small, wooden stool that stood next to various sheets of white tarpaulin. “I suppose I should ask if you wan to talk about it?”

The killers face was a mask of thinly concealed concern.

“Are you seriously offering to give me another therapy session? Now?”

Hannibal shrugged, unconcerned. “Why? Have you got places to be?” The damn man knew he hadn’t.

“Well,” Will heaved a sigh. “Fine. All my troubles started when I met this stupidly handsome man at my place of work!”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “And who would that be?” He spaced out his words with airy breaths, leaving in slightly, eyes narrowed almost predatorially.

“Well, duh. Me! We have mirrors there, you know.” Will rolled his eyes. Hannibal snapped back into his professional guise, faint emotion running rampant in his eyes. “Nah, I’m just kidding. Damn, Dr. Lector, but did anyone every tell you that you look good enough to eat?”

“No, usually I’m the one telling _them_ that.”

Ah. Well.


End file.
